Charming and pretty as she is, a woman old enough to be their mother, she stirs the hearts of the undergrads, who, across the footlights, innocently think she is a girl of eighteen. So much for the delusions of the stage. Still, it is marvellous how some actresses seem blessed with perpetual youth. There is no doubt about it that Miss Geneviève Ward is one of the most remarkable women of the age. One morning in March, 1908, came a knock at the door, and in she walked. “Out for my constitutional, my dear,” she exclaimed, “so I thought I would just look you up. I have walked six miles this morning, and after a little rest and chat with you I shall walk another mile home and enjoy my luncheon all the better for it.” “You are a marvel!” I exclaimed. “Seven miles and over seventy. I saw your ‘Volumnia’ was a great success the other day when you played it with Benson.” For “Volumnia” is one of the grand old actress’s chief parts. “Yes,” she said, “and the next day I started for Rome. I got a telegram to say one of three old cousins, with whom I was staying in Rome a few weeks previously, had died suddenly; so four hours after receiving the message I set out.” “Were you very tired?” I asked. “No, not at all. I knitted nearly all the way and talked to my fellow-passengers, and when I arrived, instead of resting, went at once to see to some business, for these two old sisters, one of whom is blind, were absolutely prostrate with grief, and had done nothing while awaiting my arrival. I stayed a fortnight with them, settled them up, and arrived back two days ago.” Miss Ward has one of the most remarkable faces I have ever known. Her blue-grey eyes are electric. They seem to pierce one’s very soul. They flash fire or indignation, and yet they literally melt with love. And this great, majestic tragedienne is full of emotion and sentiment. Geneviève Ward is the Sarah Siddons of the day. Her “Lady Macbeth,” “Queen Eleanor,” “Queen Katherine,” and her other classic rôles, are unrivalled. Her elocution is matchless. Her French is as perfect as her English; anyone who ever heard her recite in French will never forget it, and her Italian, for purity of diction, is not far behind. On the stage her grand manner is superb. She is every inch a queen, and yet, strange as it may appear, she is only a small woman, five feet three at most; but so full of activity and courage that she impresses one with immense power, height, and strength. I happened to tell her that I had again seen an account of her marriage in a paper. “Some new invention,” she laughed. “And yet it is not necessary to invent, for the romance and tragedy of my life were acute enough.” And she then told me the following story: “I was travelling with my mother and brother on the Riviera in 1855, when we met a Russian, Count de Guerbel. He was very tall, very handsome, very fascinating, very rich, and twenty-eight. I was seventeen.